God Help the Outcasts
by CocoSushi
Summary: Biz has a habit of sticking her nose into other people's business, leading to her involvement in a dangerous gang as she finds herself caught in the messy world of newsie politics. Too late she realizes there are many things she was better off not knowing
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to Newsies or anything else you recognize. The title of this story is taken from Esmeralda's song in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and I don't own that either. I do claim ownership to any original character you come across as well as the plot. All else is property of Disney.

A/N: Hi all! It's Grace here. You probably don't know me. I haven't written any Newsies fanfics before, although I have been a fan for quite a while now. The idea for this story has been floating around in my mind for quite a while now and I thought I'd just take a chance and try it out. It's pretty different from other Newsies fanfics. For one thing, it centers around the younger Manhattan newsies. When I was little the first time I saw the movie, I found Snipeshooter rather endearing. Because of my fondness for the little guy with the deep voice, I decided to give him a love interest in the form of my OC, Beatrice "Biz" Dubois. Of course, since they are so young, the romance won't really develop until later on in the story. But fear not, for our brave heroine will face many obstacles on her way to adulthood including a brewing turf war, a long-forgotten mystery, and the surfacing of great and powerful gang who, by reasons unknown and extraordinary, have made Biz their next target.

So grab your reading glasses and sit tight, for the journey is just beginning.

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><p><span>God Help the Outcasts<span>

_God help the outcasts_

_Hungry from birth_

_Show them the mercy_

_They don't find on earth_

_God help my people_

_We look to You still_

_God help the outcasts_

_Or nobody will_

Chapter One

_Autumn 1899_

Darkness falls upon New York City. The buildings cast shadows across the streets. In the slums somewhere, a poor mother is preparing dinner for her children from the meager scrapings she could find. I bet old Pulitzer is sitting at the head of a long, ornate dining table, with a gleaming silver fork in one hand and a jewel-encrusted knife in the other. I bet he's got a steaming pot of lamb stew in front of him and seasoned green beans and mashed potatoes on the side. I bet he's going to go back for seconds and he's so rich, I bet he'll even have thirds. And for desert, he'll treat himself to the delectable chocolate cake his cook spent hours on this morning. I bet it's dripping with syrup. I bet it's coated with layers of frosting. I bet it has real sugar in it – the fine, white, crystals you can't even steal at the market. I bet…

I really shouldn't be thinking about food in a situation as serious as this. But I skipped dinner and I'm so goddamn hungry I could eat Snipeshooter. My stomach growls and I cross my arms over it, hoping no one else had heard it.

The thought is fruitless because, for once, the lodging house is silent. At least a dozen of us have squeezed into the spare room, crowding around Tumbler's small, still body. His chest still rises and falls, but I wonder how long he will continue breathing. Skittery stands beside Tumbler, his fists twisting the life out of his cap. Although his back is toward me, I can picture his face. Clenched jaw and a hardened gaze – he is angry, probably even angrier than the rest of us combined. He always had a soft spot for the kid. Tumbler was like a brother to him. But quickly, I catch myself. _Is_. Tumbler is like a brother to him.

"We need to find out who did this," Skittery says. I don't think I have ever heard him sound so frighteningly determined, so dark and dangerous. He wants revenge. All of us do. The hate boils inside of me, disgusted that anyone could have the audacity to beat up a kid – an innocent little kid who never did anything wrong in his life! But I knew Tumbler wasn't the first of the city's victims. I've heard a countless number of horror stories of lowlifes ganging up on street rats like us, stealing what little they had, then leaving the bodies to rot in some back alley for a stranger to stumble upon the next day. I've heard about these things my entire existence, but it's what I have resigned to as a part of life that can never be changed.

"What we need is to find a doctor," says Clara as gently as possible. She dabs at Tumbler's sweaty brow with a damp cloth, her touch gentle around the right side of his face, which is swollen beyond recognition. Slowly, she slides up his nightshirt to reveal the nasty wound by his abdomen. After adjusting the makeshift bandages, she turns to the rest of us. "He probably has a few busted ribs. The cut's deep; I fear he might get an infection." She looks back at Tumbler and a sob escapes from her before she can contain it. "I've done all I can," she says, tears sliding down her storybook face. I almost break down myself. If Clara, who we always call "Barton" after the Angel of the Battlefield, does not know what to do, then we stand no chance.

"Maude and Jack are looking for a doctor right now," says Mush. "They ought to be back any minute now."

"Some luck they'll have," Skittery spits out. "We can't afford it. What practiced doctor would sacrifice two bits for the likes of us?" His face is flushed and his hands shaking, probably from the urge to hit something before he had the chance to hurt himself.

Crutchy, ever the voice of optimism, limps forward to rest his hand on his shoulder. "Have a little faith, eh Skitts?" he says. But Skittery only shrugs him off and storms off to the filth-fogged window, filling the room with stony silence.

Both the hunger and the emotions claw at my stomach and become unbearable. With my head spinning and cries threatening to tear through my lips, I flee through the doorway, muttering something about needing to get some air. I dash down the steps and away from the lodging house, my boots slapping against the cobblestone. I keep running, not caring where they take me. And I keep running because it's the only thing I know how to do. It's what I do best.

The church lies just around the corner. I pass by it often enough to know it's there but not enough to know its name. It looks sleepy, sound, and small. It feels safe. The doors are always open, both literally and metaphorically. Great, I think. One less obstacle for me as I burst through the archway and throw myself into the nearest pew.

The tears come quicker then I'd expected, streaming down my cheeks in tiny rivers, that soon turn into waterfalls, and even more so, a never-ending deluge. The same thoughts that I have tried to suppress the entire twelve years of my life fight their way from my subconscious and into my mouth, coming out as strangled sobs and wordless accusations. I blame Tumbler's mother for abandoning him just as mine did to me, leaving him to rot on the streets like last week's dinner. I condemn the spineless criminals who beat him and damn them to Hell. I point an ink-stained finger at the coppers and bulls, who, with their crisp uniforms and billy clubs, could not stop any of this from happening. Their shiny badges aren't worth a damn.

I crouch over on the bench and cover my mouth with my hands to keep myself from screaming. How long before it is my body lying beaten and bloodied in a godforsaken alleyway? How long before my legs give out, withered after years of walking miles across the city? Walking to sell newspapers, and selling them to people who don't give a damn about me, who could care less if I'd died on the spot. How long before I am trapped in one of those filthy, airless tenements with five mouths to feed and a drunken husband to attend to? How long before my life ends without ever once becoming more than the cage it already is?

They say that sometimes, all you need is a good cry to make you feel better. Then why is it the longer I cry, the worse I feel? My sides seize up and I can hardly breathe. My throat feels raw and parched, and yet I can't get myself to stop. My last thought is to pray – for myself and for those like me. For the poor and the immigrants. For the street rats and sweatshop workers. If anyone would care about people like us, it would be Jesus, right? So God, if you are listening, I can only ask that the day will come when I won't have to be living on borrowed time. I pray that the day will come when I can finally escape.

With one last sob, I find that I have exhausted myself out. I collapse on the pew and lay there on my back, gazing listlessly at the church ceiling.

"Biz?" I hear a voice from behind me. "Biz, are you there?"

"Over here," I call, raising a lazy hand so he could see.

Snipeshooter's face appears above me, tensed up in worry. "What the hell have you been doing? I've been looking for you for ages," he says angrily.

"You shouldn't curse inside a church, Snipes," I chide him softly, turning my head to face him.

His face heats up slightly, but he quickly dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. "Whatever. You could have told us you were coming here. 'Sides, it ain't Sunday. Why did you suddenly want to go to church anyway?" he asks, eying me with suspicion.

"I was praying. What else do people do in a church?" I snap, glaring at him in annoyance. "People don't _only_ go to church on Sunday, at any rate. There's mass practically everyday of the week."

"I know_ that_," he says, sighing in exasperation. "What I meant was that if you felt like praying, you could have said something instead of running out of the lodging house as if death himself was chasing you."

"Maybe death was chasing me, ever think about that?" I tell him seriously. "Maybe death is chasing us all."

His eyes grow big at this last statement. "Death chasing us? Jesus, Biz, I was joking."

I shrug nonchalantly. "Yeah, well, so was I."

He shakes his head, not sure whether or not to believe me. "You're crazy, Biz," he says and leans his elbows against the backrest of the bench, giving me a small smile.

I don't return the smile and instead, stare solemnly up at him. "Do you think things can change, Snipes?" I ask, my voice lowering to just above a whisper.

"What do you mean?" He looks at me in confusion, resting his chin on his arms.

"Do you think things will ever get better?" I say, closing my eyes as soon as I feel the tears start to well up again.

He thinks for a moment before confessing, "I don't know, Biz. Guess all we can do is to live long enough to find out."

His lips curve upwards and I have to grin back this time, because only Snipeshooter could say something like that.

"Come on," he says, holding a hand out to me. "We have to get home soon, or else Jack will tan my hide."

"Jack's back? Has he found a doctor?" I ask, sitting up abruptly.

"Of course," Snipes says, his face flushing with excitement as they usually did when he was telling a story. "You know how persuasive Cowboy can be. He sweet-talked some hoity toity surgeon to come by – a real doctor, not even one of those apothecary quacks! So the surgeon must have a soft spot for kids like us, because he takes one look at Tumbler and says that he'll do everything for free."

"Really?" I gasp in amazement.

"And that's not all," he continues. "It turns out that all Tumbler's got is a bruised rib and real bad shiner. The cut is deep, but the doc gave Barton some medicine and bandages to keep it clean."

"That's… Wow. Just wow." I am at a loss for words. Just a moment ago, I was bawling my eyes out, not realizing that things were not as worse as they seemed.

"Don't just sit there," he says impatiently. "Come on! You remember the last time we broke curfew…"

Without any further arguments, I let him help me to my feet. He leads me out of the church and puts his arm around me in a best-buddy kind of way. I take one look at his crooked teeth and freckled face, and for the first time in a while, I think that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope.

I nudge him with my elbow. "Hey, I'll race you," I say. But before he can answer, I shoot off toward the lodging house, leaving him cursing behind me as he scrambles to catch up. Skirting around a corner, I throw my head back and laugh. Snipeshooter makes everything too easy.

_Please help my people_

_The poor and downtrod_

_I thought we all were_

_The children of God_

_God help the outcasts_

_Children of God _

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><p>AN: Do pardon my dramatic open author's note. I have just gotten back from Universal Studios and after seeing the epicness that is the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, I have been trying to make everything else equally as exciting. While in Orlando, I watched HP7 Part 2. I bawled into my popcorn for about half the movie. Who else plans on seeing it again? I certainly do :)

I hope you enjoyed the first installment of God Help the Outcasts. There are longer and more exciting chapters to come! Thank you so much for reading and don't forget to review!_  
><em>


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed. Your comments made me smile! Here's the next chapter :)

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

"Biz… Biz, wake up!"

I wake up to a not-so-gentle prodding on the back of my shoulder. Rolling over on to my stomach, I mumble incoherently into my pillow. But the prodding doesn't stop and my blanket is yanked from my grip. I grope around for it blindly, my hands making contact with someone's head.

"Ow! Watch it!" It's Maude's voice, I think. She always sounds ten times bossier in the morning.

"Leave me alone," I tell her, my voice croaky from sleep.

"Those papes ain't gonna sell themselves," she says cheerily. Before I can react, something grabs at my nightgown and I tumble to the floor. While everyone else laughs at my expense, I scowl at Maude, whose eyes twinkle at me in merriment.

"What if I was on the top bunk?" I say, crossing my arms indignantly. "You could have killed me!"

"Would have served you right for sleeping so late," Maude says matter-of-factly. "You were burning the midnight oil last night, weren't you? I woke up at maybe two o'clock in the morning and I could still hear you rustling in your little corner there."

I flush, reminding myself to be quieter next time. "I was writing," I explain. "I was on to something good."

"And it couldn't wait till morning?" asks Maude with a raise of an eyebrow.

"Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise," quips ten-year-old Adage, imparting her daily proverb as Barton braids her hair.

"That's right," says Barton, giving Adage an affectionate pat on the head.

I sigh and get out my clothes for the day. These girls may be my only family, but there are some things about me they will never understand. Gathering my towel and toothbrush, I make my way from the attic to the washroom, careful while crossing the still-sleeping boys' bunkroom. I will never get over the injustice of having to wake up a good fifteen minutes earlier just to use the toilet while the boys get to continue dreaming their sweet dreams.

"Morning Ferris," I say with a yawn.

"Whaddaya say, Biz?" she greets and spits into the sink, smiling at me with her grin still full of baking soda. Ferris is tiny and frail, but with a mouth to make up for it. As I am the lodging house resident gossip, we make quite a team in divulging all the newsies' dirtiest secrets. I suppose you could call her my best friend, if I believed in them.

"How did you sleep last night?" I ask, starting to untie the rags from my hair. Barton always says I look like a high-class girl with my dark curls – quite a contrast to my worn, faded blue dress that was a hand-me-down from Maude. When she gave it to me, it was already patched up in a few places and reached my mid-calf. Now, it falls to just below my knees and has several more patches. I sigh and pull my only pinafore over it, which is in slightly better shape than the dress. If only I were able to afford pretty, fashionable clothing.

"On me back," Ferris replies with a toothy grin. "Guess who I am?" She grabs a razor from over the basin and pretends to shave, all the while making ridiculous faces at herself in the mirror.

"You could pass for Jack," I tell her. "Except for the fact that you ain't got a single hair on your chinny chin chin."

"Well, neither does Jack, but that don't stop him," she answers truthfully. I laugh so hard that I almost swallow my toothbrush. Ferris has to clap me on the back a few times as I cough noisily into the sink.

"What's going on in there?" Kloppman's elderly voice calls from the bunkroom, where I suspect he is beginning to wake the boys.

"Nothing, Kloppman," our voices chime innocently.

"Biz and Ferris, is that you making all that racket?"

"Sure is!" I say.

"I shoulda known… Just hurry up before I rouse the beasts," he tells us through the door. "And try not to kill each other!"

We giggle, both knowing that Kloppman has always had a soft spot for us girls. I finish brushing my teeth and wash my face quickly, which is always difficult with Ferris pestering me to get a move on.

"Come on," she whines as I am lacing up my boots. The moment I stand up, she tugs on my arm and I find myself flying out the front door and over to the distribution office. We end up being the first ones there. Weasel and the Delancey brothers are as charming as ever.

"So the runt's still here," is Weasel's customary greeting. He glances at me before going back to his bookkeeping. "What'll it be?"

"Fifty," I say, throwing down a quarter. He nods his head in Oscar's direction.

Oscar plops the stack in front of me and leans his elbows on it just to annoy me. "Morning, Biz," he says, leering at me.

I audibly gag in response before prying the newspapers from him, hefting them on to one shoulder. Stepping back, I wait for Ferris to buy her papers.

"Same as her," she says and hands Weasel the two bits.

"Fifty for the chink," he says to Oscar.

Ferris and I both stiffen. I am so angry that I can hardly even speak. But Ferris can handle her own. "You ain't got no right to talk that way to me," she retorts coolly. Seizing her papes, she and I storm off, but not before giving them a middle-fingered salute.

We walk along Duane Street, with me ranting on about how fat and idiotic Weasel really is. "He's vile – a downright asshole, if you ask me," I tell her. "But you could take him. You could take on anyone."

"Thanks." She gives me a half-smile, staying awfully quiet. We go off on our separate ways soon after. We don't normally sell with each other. Ferris feels more comfortable selling around Chinatown, where her and Swifty's aunt lives. Now I understand why. I prefer to wander, staying mostly in the Lower East Side. I often venture throughout the boroughs to visit my sources, who keep me up-to-date on the goings-on in New York. Today, I decide to go to the Brooklyn Bridge, where I have struck a deal with some of Conlon's people. I tell them what's happening in other parts of the city, and in turn, they dish out a few secrets of their own. I also get to move freely around their territory without getting soaked (a fair deal, if you ask me).

By noon, I have sold a little over half of my newspapers. I start to slow down for lunch, buying hot dogs with my friend, One-Up, who's your typical rough and tumble Brooklynite. He's loud and obnoxious and for some reason, he's taken a liking to me. He's good-looking enough, I guess, with his wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes. But he annoys the hell out of me each time he asks me to come with him to see the flickers. The only reason I waste my time with him is because he's one of Spot Conlon's prized birdies and the youngest of his inner circle. Obviously, he's in the know about lots of important things.

"What's shakin', Biz?" One-Up spits into his palm and holds it out to me. I return the gesture, not liking the way he won't stop smirking at me. He also holds onto my hand longer than necessary.

"Could be better," I say, prying my hand from his sweaty grip. "How goes it with you?"

"Same old," he replies, slumping lazily in the park bench.

I take a bite of my hot dog and savor its meaty goodness. "Ain't no hot dog like a Brooklyn hot dog," I say. Often, I find that it is most effective to compliment the borough of the person I'm getting information from. The pride gets to them and makes them more willing to open up. I've been doing this a long time, you see.

One-Up grins toothily. He's already finished his lunch and is wiping his hands on his trousers. For a few minutes, we watch the people as they stroll through the park on this surprisingly warm October afternoon.

"You know, it's almost like we're on a date," he points out and moves to put his arm around me.

I frown and shove him off. "Cowboy would kick your ass if you pull something like that again," I snap, moving over to the far end of the bench.

"Cowboy ain't got the guts to kick nobody's ass," he says challengingly.

"He would too," I argue irritably. "Even if that ass is property of Spot Conlon."

That shuts him up for a bit. But he only laughs and tells me it was worth a shot. I feel bad when I lie and say that Maude won't let me see any boys on account that I'm not old enough. Truth is, no one knows that I sometimes go to Brooklyn to see him. Not Ferris, not Jack, and not even Snipeshooter. I have a feeling that Snipes wouldn't be so happy if he found out.

"You ever trust in your gut, Biz?" he says abruptly, his expression suddenly turning serious.

"I suppose so," I answer, trying to hide my eagerness. Whatever he is going to tell me, it has to be good.

"I saw a couple of Toronto's boys sneaking around here. So I followed them, and saw them head over the border straight into Queens."

"Toronto?" I say, my eyes widening in surprise. "What business do the Bronx boys have in Queens? Last I heard, they wanted nothing to do with each other."

"That's what I thought," says One-Up, biting his lip in uncertainty. "But I don't know. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe they just came to visit family or something."

"But what's your gut telling you?" I ask, meeting his gaze.

He does not break eye contact when he says, "It's telling me that a storm's brewing, and I don't like it."

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><p>That evening, I make it back to Manhattan early enough for dinner. By the time I get to Tibby's, most of the newsies are already there. Having spent the whole day walking, I am terribly exhausted and ready to collapse. Falling into my usual seat beside Snipeshooter, I tell the waiter, "I'll have a sarsaparilla, a ham and cheese sandwich – actually, make that two ham and cheese sandwiches – some fries, some chicken, and an apple tart for dessert."<p>

"Feeling hungry, Biz?" Boots asks with a raised eyebrow.

"You have no idea," I say, rubbing my empty stomach. Sure, it's a lot, but I am famished. Let's just pretend I can afford it.

"Did everyone have a good day selling?" says Ferris brightly. Without waiting for a response, she launches into a blow-by-blow account of a seemingly earth-shattering event involving her Aunt's chickens, a laundry line, and a traveling circus. Ferris knows that the rest of our table usually pretends to listen and she doesn't care. But Boots is the only one who is actually interested, always smiling at her and laughing at the right spots. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was fond of her.

"Slow down. You might choke," I say to Snipeshooter, who is shoveling his food into his mouth a mile a minute. He continues to do so, so I grab his wrist. He scowls and wrenches his hand away from me, pushing yet another mountain of sausage into his mouth for a good measure.

My plate piled with food finally arrives and before I can even swallow a mouthful, Snipes reaches over and grabs a fistful of fries, saying, "You gonna eat that? Thanks," and takes the fries for himself.

He makes a grab for one of my sandwiches, but I bat his greedy fingers away. "Whoa there, carnivore! Buy yourself your own ham and Swiss," I cry, elbowing him in the side to keep him at bay. That boy has been eating his weight in chicken wings each day but manages to stay the same. Go figure.

When he sticks out his tongue at me, I'm given a front row view of the remnants of his dinner. "How gentlemanly," I tell him dryly, sitting back in my seat. Boys these days have absolutely no manners.

The door opens and in comes Jack with his arm around Sarah (us girls all shudder because none of us genuinely like her, but no one wants to say that to Jacky's face). Les follows, looking angelic as ever, and then… My breath catches and I suddenly start to sweat. David Jacobs. He's wearing that blue pinstripe shirt that brings out his eyes. It's slightly unbuttoned on top – no tie – and unbuttoned enough so I can see a hint of the gray long johns that lie beneath. His face is perfect. His curly hair is the perfect amount of disheveled. I watch, transfixed, as the corner of his mouth quirks upward when he says, "Hiya fellas," and slides into a booth beside his sister. I scan his profile, lingering at his jaw line then straying to his torso. Jack cracks a joke and David laughs. I notice how his shoulders kind of shake when he does so. May the day come when David Jacobs laughs at one of my jokes, when I make his shoulders shake like that, when I finally get him to glance my way. When I…

A splash of water (at least I hope that's what it is) lands on my face and splashes down my dress. I let out a shuddering gasp, discovering that it is in fact water and it's ice cold. Around my table, everyone is laughing at my expense – Ferris, Boots, Slider, Les, Adage, and… Snipeshooter, who has still got the straw he squirted me with dangling from his mouth like a cigarette. For a long time, I watch him, the water dripping into my eyes, as he slaps his knees and guffaws idiotically. I take a breath – then I pounce. Grabbing a half of one of my sandwiches, I take it in one hand, seize the back of his head with the other, and shove it into his irksome gob. The rest of the table watches in amusement as his arms flail about, trying to detach himself from me, simultaneously trying to swallow the glob of ham and Swiss cheese I had forced into his mouth.

The moment I release him, Snipeshooter takes a few breaths before swallowing the entire thing whole. Standing, he raises his arms in triumph, appraising the crowd just as a boxer does after winning a match. Ferris applauds and Boots whistles through his fingers. I roll my eyes because swallowing sandwiches whole can hardly be considered a talent. Snipeshooter turns to me with an expectant glint in his eyes.

"You sprayed water on me," I tell him pointedly. "You deserved it."

With a menacing smirk, he steps closer, towering over me while I'm seated. "You think so, Biz?"

I do not even time to prepare myself for the assault that follows. The moment his hands seize my sides, I topple out of my chair with a tiny shriek. Over and over again, I curse Snipeshooter for knowing my one true weakness.

"Stop it, Snipes," I cry between peals of laughter. But he doesn't. Even when my body has shifted to be half under the table, he mercilessly persists on tickling me.

"What's the magic word?" he asks in a singsong voice. I manage to regain my composure for about two seconds to scowl at him.

"Never," I say dramatically, fruitlessly biting back the laughter. When my self-control is not enough, I decide to look for outside support. Looking under the table, I tug at the first pair of shoes I can find. "Boots," I plead, bursting out into a fresh fit of giggles. "Make him stop!"

Boots ducks his head to look at me under the table and shrugs. "Sorry Biz, but this is even more entertaining than a night at Medda's."

I didn't even realize what a ruckus we were making until I caught sight of a checkered vest over Snipeshooter's shoulder.

"Everything alright over here?" Racetrack asks, mirth evident on his face.

"No! Just get him off of me," I say, releasing an inhuman sounding squeal. When this is finally over, I will never forgive Snipeshooter for this.

Racetrack, who seems to be the only one Snipes actually listens to, takes his darn time contemplating my request. "I don't know, Biz," he says with mock-uncertainty. "I ain't gonna be around all the time to fight your battles for you. It's something you've got to learn on your own."

I groan in frustration. Will no one in New York take pity on a poor girl on me, who can't help but be extraordinarily ticklish?

"Just give up," says Snipes with an air of superiority. I don't have to voice my submission. He sees it in my eyes.

I try to hold it in for a moment longer, but I can't. The fight leaving me, I shout out, "Please!"

A self-satisfied smile spreads slowly across his freckled face and he releases me. He practically struts back to his seat, tossing over his shoulder, "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" I purse my lips, instantly regretting it. Soon his ego will be so heavy, he can hardly walk.

With an injured pride, I rise to my feet. I make a big show of straightening my clothes and dusting myself off. Then, I stroll over to the other side of the restaurant. When I pass Snipeshooter, I gave him a harsh flick to the head.

"Hey!" he calls after me, but I ignore it.

"Can I sit here, Jack?" I say, walking over to his booth. "Them Neanderthals are giving me a headache." I make it a point to send a contemptuous glare behind me. Snipes busies himself with my leftover food in retaliation.

"Snipeshooter giving you problems again?" Jack asks with a knowing smirk, scooting over to make room for me.

Climbing in beside him, I gratefully accept the napkin he offers me. "Yeah," I tell him, wiping the water from my face. "He's being a real pain in the ass."

I notice Sarah purse her lips at my unladylike swearing. I look at her challengingly, as if daring her to tell me off about it. Her brother, however, chuckles warmly. My heart lifts, pride filling me as I realize I had just made David Jacobs laugh.

"Davey, you remember this here girl, don't you?" says Jack.

Nodding, David says to me, "Yeah, I think I saw you a couple of times during the strike."

My face heats up slightly as I smile into my lap. So he does remember me. So he has noticed.

Jack wraps his arm around me and says, "We call her Biz, short for business, as in ain't none of yours. She's been sticking her nose where it don't belong for as long as I've known her. Knows all the comings and goings in New York. Spot Conlon would have tried to recruit her as one of his birdies if I'd let him."

I feel myself turning even pinker. "Nah, that ain't true," I say, trying to appear as sweet and modest as possible. Truth is, I'm only sweet when I want to be and I sure as hell ain't modest. I'm good at finding things out that I'm not supposed to and I have no problem letting people know that.

"Spot Conlon? Really?" says David with a raise of the eyebrow. "That's impressive. And Spot doesn't seem like the type of guy who's easily impressed."

"I think you impressed him," I blurt out suddenly. Then, I sit back, and fumble nervously with my dress. "I mean, what you did during the strike… I don't know. You sure impressed me." I give him a shaky smile, trying to conceal how horrified I am at what I had just said.

"You impressed us all, Davey," says Sarah, patting her brother on the arm.

Jack finally notices how red I am and looks at me in concern. "You okay, Biz? You look like you're coming down with a fever," he says, pressing the back of his hand against my forehead.

"I'm fine, really," I say, scrambling out of the booth. "I'm just a little tired. I think I'll go back to the lodging house to lie down."

As I walk out the door, I catch Jack telling David, "She's a real sweetheart, ain't she?"

"Yeah," says David. "She's adorable."

Adorable? My heart sinks. He's three years older than me. Of course he'd still see me as the other newsies do – a younger sister, a silly little girl. I want to cry because nothing will ever become of it and I was stupid to think otherwise. Stupid, I berate myself with a slap to the forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

* * *

><p>AN: Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up soon. Thanks for reading and don't forget to review!


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